


a thousand drunken dreams

by idrilka



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 22:17:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idrilka/pseuds/idrilka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Nate's paddle party, Brad takes him home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a thousand drunken dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the YAGKYAS Good Cookies post over at [combat-jack](http://combat-jack.livejournal.com), for this prompt: _When I can't bring myself to say what I need to, my heart plays Russian Roulette with my throat._ The title comes from a song by Angela McCluskey.

They’re plying him with beer and tequila and whiskey, and Brad thinks that he spots a bottle of vodka somewhere in the mix at one point, and the LT—Captain—Nate—for once doesn’t try to protest, just knocks back the shots handed to him, like he doesn’t have to care about the conduct becoming of an officer of the United States Marine Corps. (Well, he doesn’t, not anymore.)

Brad has to admit, Nate saying _fuck you_ to the rules of proper behavior is, in a way, a thing of beauty. He is also drunk.

Brad, on the other hand, is stone cold sober this time. He’s had one beer after he arrived at Gunny Wynn’s house, but that’s all. This is so contrary to his S.O.P. that he doesn’t even know how to begin to explain it—coming to Nate’s paddle party, he was intent on getting tanked and forgetting everything, especially the way Nate looked so accessible in his civvies, just within an arm’s reach and not like his commanding officer at all. But then—then he got here and, after Mike tried to hand him another bottle of Corona, Brad said no.

There’s something twisting in his stomach.

It’s around three in the morning when Mike comes to find Brad, who is sitting in the corner of the room by himself, observing everything and admiring nothing. (Maybe apart from Nate.) The other guys have reached various states of piss-poor drunk and unconscious by that time, and only Ray is still holding court in the middle of the living room, drinking straight from the bottle and moving swiftly from one rant to another. Brad is kind of impressed by Person’s coherence, considering the state he’s in.

“Brad, you’re sober, right?” Mike asks in a hushed voice.

“Like a baby, Gunny.” Brad grins, but he thinks he knows what happens next, and something heavy settles in his chest.

“Good. Can you…” Mike gestures with his head in the direction of Nate, who’s sitting slumped in the armchair, his head tilted back and his eyes glazed over.

Brad stands up.

“No worries, Gunny, I got him.” He gives him a nod. “You make sure those sister-fucking inbred morons don’t choke on their own vomit. I’ll take it from here.”

Nate is surprisingly pliant in his grip when Brad leads him out the door and down the front steps. They stand there for a moment, breathing in the fresh air. Brad hopes it’ll help Nate clear his head, and he waits for him to say something, but Nate stays silent.

“Come on,” Brad whispers, breaking the silence, and tugs at Nate’s sleeve. “Let’s get you home.”

Nate doesn’t say a word the entire way to his apartment, tucked safely in the seat of Brad’s car, watching the road through the passenger window, his eyes half-closed, maybe dozing off for a minute or two, but every time Brad glances at him, he’s awake and alert.

“Keys, sir,” Brad says once he’s parked in front of Nate’s building.

“I’m fine, Brad, you don’t have to come up.” It’s the first time Nate says anything. The words come out a little slurred and Brad can see he’s trying to focus his eyes on one point and failing. There’s no way he’s going to let Nate go alone.

“Like hell I don’t. Now, hand me the keys, sir.”

Nate obediently fishes the keys out of the front pocket of his jeans, fumbling with them for a moment, then passes them on to Brad.

“Forty-one. My apartment,” he says in a soft voice. When they get out of the car, in the soft, yellow streetlamp light Nate looks almost unearthly, like a vision, and Jesus fucking Christ, when did Brad become a fucking crappy teenage wannabe poet with a crush?

He’s never been to Nate’s apartment before, and by the time they get to the fourth floor, Nate grows even more drowsy, leaning against Brad as he tries to open the door. There are at least ten keys on the key ring, and it takes Brad a moment to figure out which to use, while Nate is anything but helpful. The body heat he radiates does nothing to help Brad’s concentration.

“Don’t turn on the lights,” Nate whispers with his mouth against Brad’s neck once they’re in, and Brad shudders when the warm air hits his skin. It’s a good thing he’s sober. At least he can control himself. “My eyes…”

Brad considers it for a moment, but it’s too dark in the apartment to do anything, and he doesn’t know the layout, so he turns on the tall lamp standing in the far corner of the room, which is giving off soft, mellow light that won’t hurt Nate’s eyes.

“Thank you,” he says, tugging Brad by the wrist until he sits on the couch beside Nate.

This is when Nate leans in and kisses him, soft and sloppy, and when he moves back, he looks equally scared and fucked up. His lips are even more red when he licks them, like he’s chasing the taste of Brad with his tongue.

“I had to,” he explains in a broken voice, “just this once, before… I had to. I’m sorry.”

Brad feels like he can’t breathe for a moment. The words he can’t say are choking him.

“Let’s get you to bed,” he tells him instead.

Nate looks like he wants to say something or do something, but he doesn’t protest when Brad leads him to his bedroom and starts to undress him, carefully avoiding his eyes.

“Sleep it off, Nate,” he says then and leaves the apartment.

He spends the next few hours quietly freaking out on Mike Wynn’s front porch.

He has never considered that. That Nate might want him, too. That Nate might feel guilty about that. As if you could know Nate and not want him. Laughable, really.

Brad knows there’s a number of reasons why this is a bad idea. He might get burned again. There’s the DADT. He doesn’t want to fuck up Nate’s life, it’s complicated enough as it is.

But it’s _Nate_. Brad has learned not to want a lot from life, but this—if he can have it—this is something he wants. It _is_ so simple.

So come morning, he refuses Mike’s offer of coffee and toast and drives back to Nate’s apartment. He still has the keys stuffed in his pocket—he forgot to hand them back to Nate once they came in, and then he ran, incapable of thinking at all.

Nate is still asleep, so Brad closes his bedroom door and, as quietly as he can, makes two cups of coffee and one egg white omelet. He couldn’t eat anything right now anyway, his stomach is in knots.

“Nate, your breakfast is ready,” he says quietly, sitting down on the edge of the bed, and he dips his head to press his lips to the corner of Nate’s mouth, then watches him stir on the bed for a moment before he finally opens his eyes.

Brad kisses him then, while his heart is pounding so hard that the sound is nearly deafening in his ears, but his lips are sure, because he needs Nate to understand.

When he moves away, Nate’s eyes are huge and green, staring at him without blinking.

“Brad?” he asks, his voice hoarse. “What are you doing here? I thought you—”

Brad swallows and thinks of all the things he thought he couldn’t say, of all the things he thought he didn’t know how to say. Maybe he could find the right words after all.

“Yeah, I did,” he admits. “But I came back.”


End file.
